


The Weather Drabbles

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five drabbles of a hundred words each for the prompts "Lightning", "Thunder", "Storm" and "Rain". ("Lightning" has two versions, in one of which Sherlock and John never met.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weather Drabbles

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the wonderful [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/)**disastrolabe**.
> 
> I found out that [this portrait](http://spencermurphy.tumblr.com/post/1460662549/benedict-cumberbatch-2010-acquired-for-the) of Benedict Cumberbatch by Spencer Murphy was purchased by The National Portrait Gallery. And tried to imagine what it would be like if I went there and, completely unprepared, came across this face. I hope you enjoy!

**Rain**

  
They lie in the thick hay bundled in Sherlock’s coat. _It smells of Nan’s here_ , John thinks. Of earth, grass, and summer. Only it’s September. John hears the wind again and remembers the clear sky earlier—the huge stars gazing down benevolently at them. It’s cloudy now; it must be cold.

But they’re sheltered. And it’s warm under the coat. And the air is fragrant. And Sherlock is here, meditative and close. Perhaps it’s not so bad they got stranded—

John hears the raindrops begin their tap dance on the roof and smiles in the darkness.

Not bad at all.

  
**Thunder**

Sherlock doesn’t walk. He thunders through the corridors, shadows on the walls skittering away where he touches them.

He finds the man in the last room. White and clinical, it mocks another room. There, John’s been teetering over a flat line for a week.

Sherlock is like a drawing coloured in with just black. The man’s face turns ashen.

Sherlock remembers the cabbie. (He’ll always remember the cabbie.) Sherlock had spoken to him about emotions, as if he’d _known_ about them.

He does now.

He lifts the gun. “Love,” he says, releasing the safety, “is a much more vicious motivator.”

 

**Storm**

\- Oh, that child has gone and done it now! John will leave him. Mycroft, we cannot let John leave him.

\- What is it this time?

\- It’s pornography. He has filmed them and put it on the Internet. Some _experiment_ about number of hits and demographic groups. I don’t know and I don’t care. I wouldn’t care if he went and fornicated in Trafalgar Square. But someone they know in the police has seen it and John is simply furious—

\- I’m sure it’s just a storm in a teacup.

\- You _will_ take care of it, won’t you, dear?

\- Of course, mummy.

**Lightning (AU)**

John limps around the gallery, killing time before his appointment. He scans the exhibits dully.

And then he sees the face.

John is stunned. He can’t tear his eyes away. Words fail him at first— no, he never really finds them. Otherworldly, exquisite, ethereal— they all sound rudimentary.

John is overcome by a deep sense of longing and a need to _touch_. He glances at the sign...and his heart plummets into blackness.

_Sherlock Holmes (1976-2010)  
Donated by Mycroft Holmes_

As years go by John keeps returning to the portrait. Waning now, he is certain one day he will die gazing at Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Lightning**

John walks around the Holmes’ mansion, killing time before dinner. He finds himself outside someone’s study. Resplendent yet void of any excesses—Mycroft’s, then. He hesitates before stepping in. He looks around.

And then his eyes fall on the portrait.

John is stunned. He can’t tear his eyes away. He has never quite been able to put Sherlock into words, but this? Otherworldly, exquisite, ethereal—they all sound rudimentary.

John is overcome by a deep sense of longing. He will come back later, but now he rushes out. He needs to touch that face.

It still feels wondrous that he can.


End file.
